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now that i've moved out and have a different roommate
my mental state is so much better
i can't even begin to tell you
how much better i feel
i'm not even doing anything in particular
when people ask what's new, i don't really have anything to say
but I've always been like that
and it's so nice, and I don't care what they think so much now
it's so nice to just be able to go home
and it's my home as much as it is my roommates
there's no imbalance of power
i can go sit on the couch and do whatever i want
there's no question
no critique
no pressure
me living the way i need to
the way i want to
the way no one else told me to
it's really, really nice

reasons to hate being complicated

the other day i was driving in the car. i drove a total of 165 miles that day, around 82.5 per session, with a six hour break between. it was a good day that day, and what made it great was all the clarifying i did mentally, figuring out what i wanted to do with certain plot lines and how to start parts that have eluded me for so damn long.

it was a great, wonderful, perfect day.

and then I got home

and i know my friends and roommates mean well

and that most of the time they know better, more and generally more sensibly than I ever do.

I haven't really made peace with that.

So i told myself over and over in the car, i'll go home, and I'll write.

I'll finally get a good swing at this thing.

And I walk in the door.


I'd been so deep in my head, so at peace, so damn OPEN that it felt like a very personal attack.

"hey, i'm your houseguest, but I cleaned your apartment while you were out, since I was bored"

- you're a bad host -

"and when i cleaned out the cat litter, I noticed you don't have any fresh litter, so you may want to get some"

- wow good job you have nothing here and i cleaned up after your filthy asses -

So I acquiesce to going to the store real quick to get everything we need.

Plus donuts.

These stores are NOT far from my apartment.


I don't normally cry over lost time, but it made me so frustrated to have let her talk me into it, make me feel bad when she really had no intention of making me feel bad, imposing her standard of living on me and then, because i felt so bad, I just... i felt like I had to stay out in the front room and be a good host.

I feel like it's her secret expectation, she's got this middle-class thing going on, her standards of living are so completely different than mine

so true to my lower class upbringing, I apologize and get my servitude on. i mean, JEEZUS.

And apparently there's this tv show that i really needed to see, so i was roped into that.

because my incomplete existence is once again unacceptable.

So then I have to go to bed early, wake up, and go to work.

Worst day in existence to be working at my job.

Our boss is so bad at making food efficiently people were waiting twice as long for it as normal for her, and three times as long if any of us had replaced her in the kitchen.

By the end of the day, I was spent.

My charge was gone.

so then we went to see the avengers

which was pretty fucking awesome apart from the fact that I was pretty heartily sick of my friends and their ideas about how quality free time should be spent

and i know i'm taking things so damn personally

i got butthurt because I said i really needed to go to the bathroom a couple of times while we were waiting for the credits, and then everyone just left by the back doors without waiting for me

and when I protested, only one stopped and asked if I wanted to go real quick

and i felt like

like i was inconvenient for making everyone wait on me

so i said no

and got in the car

and waited the ride home in pain

blazed up the stairs

and dropped into the bathroom without a word


why do i get like this, i ask you, why?

why do i feel so sorry for myself

why is that, when i need to speak up for myself, i'm most likely to feel like a selfish bitch?

and i get so frustrated for being an inconvenience and making people go out of their way just because I needed something

it seems so stupid

maybe it's because if i had any more of a spine

i wouldn't do the same for them

i want to be left alone, sometimes

how do you tell people you hate the sound of human voices and want to curl up and not speak to anyone?

how do you not feel bad about trying, not even to that degree, to get some alone time

we're trained from birth that it is socially unacceptable and downright rude to isolate oneself

but I need it


I feel so empty, and hollow




I get it, you need me to do these things with you.


Got any others? Because everything I had hoped to do in a private itinerary

all those things i got so pumped for

now don't seem worthwhile at all

so thanks so much for making yourself a priority

without even ASKING

if I had plans.

because my plans aren't much, they don't look like much, they might even involve writing for an hour, listening to music, burning incense while showering or lighting candles to meditate, or sitting on the computer doing nothing or taking a fucking NAP

but they are MY FUCKING PLANS


I respect your plans, i go along with them

but you treat mine like they're nothing

and i fucking hate that.

you don't like them, fine, you don't have to participate

but you do have to let me follow through with them

and that's why i'm really fucking upset at the moment.

please shut up and let me think

"god i didn't realize this commitment I made would be such a hassle!"
"yeah that's why I don't commit to those kinds of things."

What I want to add: "Well that doesn't help me now, does it?"

is it wrong that I don't want to speak up for myself among my friends when I suffer for a misjudgment or a mistake on my part?

i really don't know how to speak up for myself.

i don't manage time well, and i really need some time to myself more often than i'm willing to admit, much less stand up for.

guilt guilt guilt

some of the old teenage angst is back, i've noticed.

crap i don't want to cry over this!

hypochondriac moment

EDIT: actually, no. that's not true. I don't give half a fuck what disorder or whatever. I just... want one person to make not just me feel like a priority, but to respect my priorities.

assuming I have the following


social anxiety disorder

assuming I'm a classifiable introvert

i'd really like a little therapy

or some fucking tips

on how to cope when these things make what ought to be simple

frustratingly complicated.

Nov. 1st, 2011

I know that I am worthwhile, that I am loved, that people enjoy my company and that I'm important to at least a few people.

I know that my priorities and personal agenda, however, do not rank so high on people's lists as I do.

And so, their efforts feel like selfishness on their part, because I feel like I'm sacrificing for their happiness when I cannot pursue my own in tandem.

And on occasion, it throws my whole goddamn ship off course.

AkuRokuAU: The Razing 1/??

| Idea I've had floating around in my head for a while. It has little enough to do with it now, but it was originally inspired by listening to the Wicked soundtrack just a bit too much. >.> It'll be slow going, but I do plan to finish it. |

| Prose is mine. Characters belong to Square Enix and Disney, respectively. Yes, that is a Final Fantasy XIII-2 Hope Estheim cameo. Yes it's premature. No, there are no fucks given. :3 |

Beneath the howling, Cathedral gargoyles, paradise burned.

Above horned, stone heads, the perpetrator stood on the roof of the stone church, a silhouette centerpiece for the bright, silvery glyph he’d spent two days placing there. The Staff in his hand pulsed wildly and fast, and he tapped the end against the ground, on one of the silvery characters closed in bright borders.

Across the burning city, a horrific, predatory scream echoed through the black smoke billows.

Below, innocent people screamed and fled in terror, but no exit route would take them beyond the city walls now.

Bahamut screamed again, and a resounding crash shook the Cathedral’s Foundation.

To pave the Road, you must first Raze the land.

The Guardian screamed again, and the man took up his Staff and carefully stepped out of the Glyph. Sensing the hold on him fray and sever, Bahamut launched away from his task and made for the Cathedral with all speed.


The ancient Cathedral stones fell apart from each other rapidly, surging en masse over Bahamut. The roof shook and slanted forward, collapsing atop it all as Bahamut roared and clawed his way out of the rubble.

The man on top went down with it, torn asunder by claws as large as he had been.

Axel woke in the usual cold sweat, gasping and sitting hunched over his bent knees. This time, someone was shaking him. Running a hand over his face, he tried to make out features in the darkness of the bedroom. “Professor Valentine…”

The old man was crying, trying to heft his son in law out of the bed. “Go, you must go, now!”

Axel let himself be pried from the warmth of the bed and put on the clothes flung at him. “Professor, where’s Avihs?”


Axel’s blood ran to ice. “My wife, Professor! Your daughter?”

A blood-curdling scream reverberated off the walls of the chamber, and the Professor resumed throwing clothes at Axel. “No, you must leave. Now. Quickly!”

Pulling another shirt over his head – just how cold was this night? – Axel was pushed toward, of all things, the window. His wand was retrieved from the bedside table and pressed hard against his palm. “I’m trusting you know a trick or two the Academy would have preferred you not learn,” Professor Valentine hissed.

Feeling disoriented to the point of slight vertigo, Axel gave his head a small, rapid shake, his jaw clenched and eyes squinting shut. “Professor… Avihs… She…”

“The Lady of Ice is here,” Professor Valentine interrupted. “You have no time left, and I assure you if the fall kills you, it will be a gentler death than what she brings to me! Go!”

The old man gave a mighty shove and Axel was thrust through the window pane into a rather balmy night, wand in hand and glass tearing his skin as he burst through it. He had enough sense to cover his face, and only looked back at the window when he began to fall. The Professor had been encased in shining ice, his expression desperate, arms still extended in the shove.

Four stories is not a long distance to fall, all things considered. The apparent Lady of Ice leaned out the window and looked at him as he fell past the third floor to the second, and his eyes found familiar features in her face.


Her hair was much longer than he’d ever known her to have, her skin blue with cold. Ice and exotic adornments covered her breasts, and a gilt, narrow belt held an elaborate, styled garment to cover her from the hips down, a cross between a wrapped sarong and a loincloth. She was stunningly beautiful, and not an inch of the Avihs he’d known, and loved, and married despite the sorrow it seemed to bring her father, now frozen and probably dead.

Axel closed his eyes, and passed the second floor into the first.

And released his wand, to drift out of reach.

While the rich and those of Bloodline resided in gilt and polished towers above all Zanarkand, beneath only sun and stars, there were those who occupied the basements and sewer tunnels beneath all avenues and rivers. Their hub ran beneath the city center, a hair to the northeast, and was affectionately and ironically termed the Clubhouse, and treated with the absent resignation adults usually reserved for forts built in trees by boys who thereafter barred girls for being girls, set up an arsenal of passwords, secret handshakes, and held infinitely important meetings about neighborhood goings-on and play-acting games. Except this Clubhouse was widely understood to the be the retreat of the unwanted – troubled orphans who broke windows in the shadows of the night for stale bread, old war veterans who were so crippled by horrors and bombs as to not even be able to blame the relatives that had abandoned them, diseased whores no one wished to touch. And everyone left it alone. The smell was unbearable, the filth incomprehensible, the corpses of the long or recently dead never piled at a great distance. The ignorant thought it a quaint hideaway for the delinquent youth; the disillusioned turned their eyes from the city’s festering wound of unwanted, glad that they didn’t stink up the streets and alleys pestering their betters for coins and bread.

In the deepest, most untouched parts of the Clubhouse’s network of tunnels filled with the groaning and miserable, life was being kindled in the rotting darkness.

“He’s a mess,” a man said softly, looking over the nigh-dead man that had been brought him.

Roxas Strife, known to the Clubhouse as the Sentinel, leaned against the wall next to the door, keeping watch in the dimness one torch allotted them. “I need him alive, Estheim. Can you do that?”

A talented and fast healer, Hope Estheim was Guardian Corps but sympathetic to the cause that had named Roxas Sentinel, and while constant trips down to the Clubhouse would be suspicious, and healed hobos and orphans downright alarming, Roxas could always count on him for a favor when he needed it. Which he did now.

Without answering, Hope let the gentle waves of magic swell up around him. He murmured a poly-syllabic incantation, and the glow transferred from him to the broken man he knelt in front of. Before Roxas’s eyes, the broken man was mended. Hope rose and walked toward the entrance. “Any leads, Sentinel?” He asked, as though the healing had been cursory, a matter of course.

“A woman named Avihs Valentine-Tarshil has vanished,” Sentinel said dryly. “Her father, Professor Grimoire Valentine, was found encased in ice around dawn. Nothing melts it, nothing chips it. He might as well be a corpse. Axel Tarshil was as good as dead when he fell from the fourth floor, saved from the fate that iced his father-in-law, the Professor.”

Hope glanced back at the healed man on the floor. “Right… And do you have anything of value?”

Sentinel frowned. “Avihs has no birth record.”

Hope crossed his arms over his uniform. “If that were possible, she wouldn’t have been able to marry Tarshil.”

“Their marriage was show,” Sentinel said, grinning now. “Axel Tarshil is Witchborn. It’s different from your foreign magic.”

Hope nodded. That much was true. Since his transfer to Zanarkand from Spira, he had learned their two worlds had very different magic, and very different attitudes toward it. Spirans brought in to Zanarkand were given special ID cards that acknowledged their brand of incantation spells and permitted them. Zanarkand magic was far more dangerous, highly unpredictable and history’s scapegoat for Chaos. Witchborn were given wands, disowned by their families as dead, and trained in their arts at the Academy, closely monitored by the Council. At the peak of their powers, they were castrated to stop the power from building and causing a loss of all sanity, followed inevitably by spilled blood. Zanarkand kept them because, neutered, they were useful.

After Hope had returned to the Corps to report on his standard checkup of the Clubhouse, Roxas stood astride Axel and knelt over him, almost sitting on his newly-mended torso. “Spiran magic really is something,” he said appreciatively, sliding a hand down from Axel’s exposed collarbone to his narrow chest then to his belly, near where Roxas squatted over him.

Axel looked up from his half of the dorm room, long limbs extended over his bed. “I hated you at first too, you know.”

Roxas shook his head. He sat on the edge of his bed, curled over with his elbows on his knees, his face propped up and buried in his palms.

Rising from the bed with a rustle of cloth and a squeak of the springs, Axel padded barefoot across the carpet between them and knelt before his dormmate, closing long hands around the younger boy’s wrists and moving his pale hands away from his face.

The sight that greeted Roxas wasn’t the visage of his long-time enemy, the laughing, graceful tease that had the sympathy of the whole school. It was the face of a man whose loved one was in pain, of a man who could do nothing to assuage the damage done.

Axel released one wrist to cup Roxas’s face in his palm. “I came to love you, Roxas Strife.” When blue eyes accused him, full of doubt and suspicion, Axel smiled, gently, and lifted himself a little even as he drew the boy’s face downward. He met Roxas’s lips with his own tenderly, moving slowly and savoring the moment for what it was.

Maybe all it would ever be.

Something in Axel’s mind whispered, “I told you so,” as he found himself shoved hard, falling backward onto the carpet. The fireplace, the only light in the deep midnight that brooked no sleep for either, sparked loudly on a few beads of sap left in the pine logs. Roxas was sitting astride his hips now, his face a tangle of determination and vulnerability, tears coming free now that distraction had eaten away his resolve to hold them at bay. He pinned Axel’s arms at either side of his head – and Axel let him. He might have fought back, but if it brought him peace to hit him, to take out his pain on him, so be it.

Roxas leaned down over him, and kissed him, his tears sliding down both their cheeks as Axel tipped his head up to return the kiss. Such happiness found him as they moved together, removing clothing and exploring more and more firelit flesh. The flames smoldered into coals as Roxas rode him from above, his scowling, cherubic face painted over with honest arousal and passion, cheeks stained red, his body bare and open. Axel thrust his hips eagerly, drinking in the sight of their joining, of Roxas’s arousal and the dimming firelight yet dancing across his pale skin. He came with a startled cry inside the tight heat of his companion, and Roxas was forced to still himself. Axel freed a hand and reached for him, pumping his shaft until bliss found him, too.

They had fallen asleep there on the carpet, and woke shivering in each other’s arms just before dawn, the fireplace cold and the slim window panes at either side of it revealing dim, grey pre-dawn and snow.

Two weeks later, Axel had been sold to a Benefactor, one Grimoire Valentine.

The benefit of being an illegal Witchborn was that you could use magic for a great many things and, because it was supposed to be secret, you had to be careful, but it was also rather unexpected and therefore vastly overlooked.

Roxas had, upon first finding the Clubhouse, taken up residence in one of the rooms deep in the labyrinth of tunnels. When this proved fatal to some of his belongings, he spent a week hollowing out a loft, far above and off any beaten path, with a narrow door he could lock and a secure, warm place to sleep. The situation begged both caution and haste, and it was a mix of both that brought Axel, unconscious and six years older than when Roxas had last seen him, to his hidden room.

He was lucky that Hope had passed through when he had. Axel had been dying, and Roxas had not the skill with healing magic he needed to save him. Hope did. The man was renowned for it, just as he was for somewhat using his position in the Guardian Corps as means to find someone he’d lost, a woman, as the rumor had it.

“Lightning,” Hope had called her. “You hear anything about her or a woman named Claire and you tell me.”

Roxas had kept his end of the bargain when he could, but even when he outright sought the woman, the trail was cold.

While Axel slept, he ate, and took stock of his garnered resources, committing to memory what he lacked or ran low on. Then he went into a separate chamber and bathed, using his wand. He was examining Axel’s wand when the man began to stir. When green eyes opened above tear-drop shaped black tattoos on his cheeks, Roxas turned his gaze to the wand. “Good morning,” he said dryly.

Axel yawned and sat up, then fell right back down in the bed. Roxas grinned from where he leaned against a dressing table, covered with notes and sketches. “That’s one of the interesting things about Spiran magic,” he observed. “They use the recipient’s energy stores to heal them as much as they use their own. You’ll probably be sore for a while.”

“My… wife…”

Roxas’s upper lip curled up in one corner, revealing a canine in his annoyance. “Avihs Valentine-Tarshil never existed. Or, to be precise, had false birth records. Glaringly false.” He wasn’t rubbing it in, it was true.

“She was real,” Axel croaked, and then coughed.

Laying the wand aside, Roxas got him a small cup of water and sat on the edge of the bed while Axel drank. “Real, sure. But she wasn’t Grimoire Valentine’s daughter. Not in the usual sense.”

Axel finished the cup and passed it back empty, a small shimmer of the old light in his eyes. “I taught you to do that, didn’t I? Your hair.”

Roxas’s eyes went up in reflex, and he patted the crown of upward spikes on one side of his head. “I guess you did.”

Smiling, Axel quoted himself from eight years before, “’Which clothes to wear, and I’ll teach you how to fix your hair…’”

“A lot of pity you had for me then, huh? Your dormmate deplored by the whole school for bunking with you.” Roxas shook his head. “Your father in law pushed you out of a fourth floor window, Axel. People don’t survive that.”

“So I’m dead, huh?”

Roxas nodded.

“And Valentine?”

Sighing Roxas gave him what, considering the circumstances, he could. “The same as you.”

“So he’s alive somewhere?”

“No,” Roxas said. “He’s encased in ice that won’t melt or crack. He’s as good as dead.” He slid off the bed. “If you’re going to survive dying, Axel, I need to teach you a few things. Or,” he said flatly, “I can kill you now and save you the pain.”

Aug. 27th, 2011


too many weddings too close together

too many friends starting new paths in their lives

too many house guests

too much of my bosses FREAKING out and losing their tempers at or around me

too little sleep

too hot

too much accumulated SHIT

too much money spent

too many bills

stop stop stop stop please world for the love of god leave me alone for, like, a WEEK so I can recover from the emotional drama and physical exhaustion brought upon me.

I feel obligated to everyone.

I feel second best.

I feel like no one's prioritizing me the way I feel I should prioritize them.

Sure, I'll clean the bathroom.

And then I'll do a load of towels.

Meanwhile, my sleeping space remains an explosion of everything I need to clean up but no one cares whether I do or not.

And it's driving me crazy. I HAVE TO SLEEP IN HERE.

this summer is exhausting.

please fucking go away and never come back you piece of shit season.

okay, not really, but it sure as hell feels too much like being deliberately surrounded and less like coincidence.

Friendside: my best friend just got married and while I am really and truly happy for her, I'm apprehensive about the future. We live together, him, her and me. They are looking for a house, and unless a really awesome stroke of luck rolls around, I will move back in with my parents for the sake of achieving my ends as best I can. I feel very second best, which is absurd, but it seems the only thing I can manage when faced with this along side everything else:

My other close friend is moving an hour and a half to the north to live with her parents until finances are better and she can return to school down here. So by choice and by basic cause and effect, we are all very close and about to all be separated. This is not a cheering thought.

Workside: my boss is nuts, nobody knows what tumblr or its little sub-culture is, people keep leaving, people who remain have one of three things to say: bosses are crazy, why are you still a virgin or what are you still doing here? get a real job! this place is bullshit.

I tried to tell you guys, I really did, that I came from something much, much worse. I was specifically and repeatedly singled out over details like gray areas in the dress code I'd interpreted incorrectly, where I could excel at every department and still only be seen for failing in one particular skill. And written up for it. Seven times in two years. No one ever openly yelled at me, no one ever directly approached me about this or that. It was a deeper, more subtle and very passive aggressive mindfuck that to this day i cannot properly articulate the full extent of how paranoid I have cause to be for it.

So they don't know, and I don't know how to tell them.

Futureside: going to go live with my parents when the time is right. going to return to school, and fight tooth and nail to get a teaching degree. I have no idea what I'm doing, I have no idea if my college will re-accept an old DROP OUT. And then what? If that's the case, I won't be able to live with my parents. Fears assailing my feeble brain ensues.

Social Networkingside: I have different facets of myself to display in different situations. I'll sneeze and burp loudly around my friends, but fight a sneeze to the bitter end so a customer doesn't have to see, curb my tendency to expletives around the same. Everywhere I go, i always have to hold part of myself back because of who I know is watching. And when i do let loose anyway, i'm a bitch. too jaded, too full of cynicism, lacking too much hope. Me.

Weather: hot as balls, humid and sticky. It's exhausting to put my hair up.

I live in Oregon, so this elicits two responses depending on where you're from:

Outside Oregon: "You don't even know what humid really means: quit being a baby and shut up!"
Inside Oregon: "Don't you think this weather's fantastic? It's wonderful!"

to that last I always, always want to say: "No. Air conditioning and box fans are wonderful. Hot weather sucks, no matter where you are."

Fandomside: been finding myself left out of watching shows with a friend as they came out. Now she's plowing on ahead and I'm left behind, twiddling my thumbs while she tells me about how awesome the latest episode of this or that is. >.< please stop.

and then there's hetalia.

Hetalia's my thing, my fandom, obsession, clique, whatever. It's mine, and i've shared fandoms with them before.

but not this one. Again, more feeling left out and like my tastes aren't as good as those pressed upon me.

Sleepside: if the weather didn't suck, i wouldn't be putting this here. bye, blankets.

I'm going to stop talking about these before i do something stupid, like cry about it even more - with actual tears, I'm sure.
Wow, really emotional this week.

Looking REALLY hard for validation that I'm good at that which I most want to be good at and

to some degree

am pretty skilled at.

Looking for this validation to the point that my overall mood is heavily dependent on it.

I want someone to read my work

because they wanted to

and tell me honestly what they think.

On the KinkMeme, there's a lot of praise to be had

And sometimes, even more rewarding, there is constructive criticism.

I'm getting tired of the KinkMeme

Burning out.

These aren't my ideas I'm getting recognition for.

They told me to jump through these hoops, and I volunteered to do it.

I want my own hoops.

I'm going to set them on fire.

I'm going to blow your mind.

posting here from a psp kind of sucks, actually. i had hoped it wouldn't. oh well. no getting around need for new computer. ick. at least i can login. tumblr is out of the picture for now.

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